


but i'm quite alright hiding today

by mywaterloo



Category: Andi Mack (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Confessions, Cyrus listens to Cavetown change my mind, Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M, Pining, Smitten T. J. Kippen, T. J. Kippen & Amber Are Siblings, T. J. plays the piano, how does this tag exist omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21975739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywaterloo/pseuds/mywaterloo
Summary: “There is just no cool way to sayI'm sorry, I think I'm catching feelings because of your songs and I'm afraid that you're just fooling around, but sometimes you look at me a certain way and I have hope again and I don't know what to do anymore.”or: When Cyrus starts wearing music merch instead of his usual shirts, T.J. decides to serenade him with his favourite songs. It sounds like a joke until it does not.
Relationships: Buffy Driscoll/Marty, Cyrus Goodman/T. J. Kippen
Comments: 10
Kudos: 89





	but i'm quite alright hiding today

Sometimes, Cyrus feels like he's in a movie.

Except, not an exciting one. Not a blockbuster with badass characters and tons of explosions. Not a psychological thriller with a wild plost twist at the end either. And certainly not a cute A24 indie production saturated with orange-and-teal filters and mellow sunsets. Scratch that—his movie is so dull that even a typical Netflix romcom starring Noah Centineo would actually be more exhilarating than the one he's living in. And he doesn't like romcoms much, so you can picture his level of dispair.

It's quite a sad thing to say, but Cyrus's movie is a lame one. Like a French auteur film, or a low-budget end-of-the-year student footage. Which means, with little to no action at all. The one you end up watching out of bore and that you desperately want to put an end to but can't find the strength to because that would mean you've wasted forty minutes of your life for exactly nothing. So you just stare at it.

And stare at it.

And stare at it.

The truth is, Cyrus likes his life just fine. He likes being able to know what's going to happen within the next minute, the next hour, or the next day, just like he cherishes the clock that divides time in parcels of constancy to prove that nothing will ever shift. It's nice. Safe. It doesn't make his stomach crumble with dread, and it doesn't scream “DANGER” at every step he takes.

Cyrus leads an existence of perfect certainty and he's happy with it.

Yet, he can't help but think: there's something missing. That is, if he had to direct his own life, he would at least bend things a little more. Add a little twist in it, you know? And no, that time he found french fries in his baby taters plate doesn't count.

He's not asking for much, really. Doesn't need anything dramatic; just one vivid colour to contrast with the paleness of everything else.

This is why, on an early September morning, he has decided to repaint his life himself.

With probably too much enthusiasm for a Monday, he opens his wardrobe. He goes through his clothes, grabs one of his favourite button-downs, and gives it one close look.

And then he throws it away.

Well, not _throws away_ , exactly. More like folds it, puts it neatly on the chair, because he still has some manners, thank you very much.

Instead, he takes out a Rex Orange County t-shirt. He struggles a little to put it on, because it's kind of too tight for him—he hadn't noticed how much he's grown during the summer. Once he's set, he takes a deep breath and goes to face the mirror. The image it reflects back doesn't really sparkle anything new, but at least he looks a little less uptight.

He runs his hands over the smooth yellow fabric, his knuckles brushing softly against the embroided letters that spell the artist's name in a multitude of bright tints. He can't remember how he got this shirt. Can't tell if it really fits. But he figured that if the world wasn't willing to give him that little twist he deserved, hey, he might as well be a little more daring from time to time.

He should have known that not everyone would be receptive to this change.

“Since when do you wear band t-shirts?” Buffy asks when they meet at The Spoon later that day.

She makes that face, a mix of disgust and sympathy, which draws a sigh from Cyrus. He shakes his head, telling himself that it's alright—Buffy is not a visionary like he is.

“I think it's great,” Andi offers. “It looks good on you. This new… thing that you do.” She waves at his pale frame, at a loss for words. Her mouth opens and closes repeatedly, as if she wanted to add something, but didn't know what.

Cyrus decides to put her out of her misery. “Thank you, Andi,” the answer followed by a grateful smile. “And to pick up on what Buffy just said, it's not a band, _per se_. It's just one guy. However, it's true that the same musicians follow him on his shows. But you can't say it's a band, because they don't have a say on his songs, you know? And… you're not listening anymore.”

Buffy nods absently, eyes unfocused. “Since when does The Scoop have a piano?” she says.

Cyrus looks at the back of the room, where her attention is directed. And it's true—a piano is waiting under the arch, near the door that leads to the kitchen. It's an upright piano, Cyrus can see. With a wooden cabinet, and curved feet. It looks nothing like the grand instruments you could find at the opera, all shiny and pitch black, but he finds himself drawn to it instantly.

“The direction decided that the restaurant had to be more lively,” a voice says behind him. Cyrus turns around to see that Amber is standing in the middle of the room. Her face is glistening with sweat, probably from the heat of the ovens. “I mean, really? Like I'm not the embodiment of life itself.”

She flashes a smile at the group, which sends a shiver down Cyrus's spine.

 _Amber_. That weird Regina George wannabe who had, in an unexpected turn, become their friend. Although she's acted fairly decently towards them since then, Cyrus is always on his guard when it comes to her; the old Amber could come back any time. It happened in _Scream_ , didn't it? That spooky guy you thought was the murderer, but then you changed your mind because he was stabbed in front of you and you felt bad for him? Turned out he really _was_ the murderer.

So, well. No one can blame Cyrus for looking twice behind her back in search of shiny knives.

“Anyway,” Amber purrs. “It's free. So you guys can play whenever you want.”

“I don't think anyone would want to do that,” Cyrus says. “What if we play a song people hate and they throw baby taters at us?”

Andi nods vividly. “Also, it's too intimidating. Who would ever want to be the first to play?”

“You mean, _to sign their death warrant_ ,” Buffy corrects between two coughs.

This only makes Amber's untarnished smile grow wider. “That's why I brought the perfect candidate,” she muses.

As if on cue, the door opens to let in a boy with disheveled blond hair. He's wearing a beanie, and on top of it the hood of a navy sweatshirt, but Cyrus has no trouble at all deciphering the features of one particular basketball player under all these layers.

T.J. yawns, scanning the room. His gaze first falls on Amber and he yawns again. His steps are slow, bearing annoyance on his way to her.

“You owe me one,” he grumbles half-heartedly.

“You don't seem too sad,” Amber comments, ruffling T.J.'s hair.

She messes up a blond strand that he is quick to reajust. “I'm just happy to see my friend, that's all—hey Cyrus, by the way—but don't think for a minute that I'm pleased with this.”

At that, Amber clicks her tongue. “Too much talking, not enough playing. Chop chop, dear brother, our customers are waiting!” she exclaims as she pushes him towards the piano.

T.J. rolls his eyes but complies, sitting on the little bench and bringing it closer to the large instrument. He hisses when his knee hits the left foot of the piano, and Buffy looks only too pleased with how this is all playing out as she gestures to Cyrus and Andi to take a seat in the corner.

“Good luck, Teej,” Cyrus says to T.J. “I'm sure you'll do great.”

He gives him one last apologetic smile and follows Buffy, her delight plastered all over her face. He wonders if she will ever miss an opportunity to rejoice over T.J.'s dismay. Some grudges last forever, it seems. Especially when it comes to Buffy.

From afar, he watches as the blonde boy taps on the microphone, testing the sound. The speakers crackle before they emit a sizzled version of his voice.

“OK. Hum. Hi?” he begins, unsure. “I'm T.J. I'm gonna... huh... play you something.”

He presses a first key—a long, sloppy note that echoes against the walls of The Spoon. It's still early in the morning, the sun has not fully risen yet and the few people in the restaurant are too drowsy, faces beaten by the pink light, to notice or to care.

Something switches in T.J.'s attitude, then; his eyes are fiercer. Determined.

He presses a second key, and it's sharper than the first one. Then several keys at the time, bold, inciting. A call— _a demand_. He wants to attract people's attention, Cyrus understands. It's like he's saying, _listen to me_.

By the time the customers start to react, the keys have become a chord, and, at last, a melody, to which T.J. adds his voice, humming an old jazz tune.

And these things don't happen. Not even in a movie.

Cyrus would know—he's a screenwriter after all. Well, an aspiring one, but still. He's learned that even in fiction, some things must remain plausible, and this does not.

He knew T.J.'s mother was a piano teacher. The topic has often been brought up when there were just the two of them, T.J. playing basketball and Cyrus standing not too far, never too far. T.J. would miss a shot, and he would talk about his hands, how they were too clumsy and did not do justice to her mother's; the grace of her fingers renowned in the country's finest orchestras. So Cyrus would reassure him, telling him that it was not the same, that her mother probably didn't dribble like he did, and T.J. would laugh, and say, “Thanks, Underdog.”

But never, during all their conversations, has Cyrus suspected how good of a player T.J. himself was. And he certainly didn't know he could sing that well.

Sure, his voice is a bit raspy at some ends, but it only adds an authentic tone to the song. More than that—there's passion in it. If T.J. seemed wary when he began to play, he's calmer now, Cyrus can tell, eyes closed and hands dancing on the tiles, his foot pressing down on the sustain pedal now and then ever so swiftly. He's not even paying attention to the audience anymore; at this very moment, he seems to only exist, only breathe through the music.

“So… it seems that you have a type.”

“What?” Cyrus says, snapping out of his contemplation.

“You know…” Buffy makes the words linger. “Cute sporty guys who can play an instrument and sing…”

Cyrus frowns, unsure of what that means. But Buffy doesn't falter, that small, insisting spark still tugging at the corner of her eyes, and he understands—lets out a gasp. “I'm not interested in T.J!” he exclaims as low as he can. “He's a good friend, that's all.”

Buffy purses her lips. “Right.”

Cyrus turns to Andi, trying to find support, but he's only met with batting eyes and a spark of bubbles, the noise followed closely by a loud slurp as the girl takes a long sip. And maybe it's just his imagination, but he's sure he can see a smirk around the straw his friend seems determined not to let go.

Quite childishly, he folds his arms and sinks into his seat. He doesn't understand why Buffy would say that. He likes T.J. alright. They're close, sure, have become closer as the days have turned colder and melted into an orange haze, washing away the bright blue of the summer.

It's just—he just feels so, so safe around him. He likes that his mind goes numb—the good kind of numb—when they're together. Likes that T.J. never asks anything from him, never expects him to do anything but be there, with him. (He likes the rumble of his laugh when he tells him how he sees the world through his too optimistic eyes.)

But there's this line. This thin, thin line, beyond which everything is blurry. A brush becomes a caress; a friendly flick becomes a hand longing for something that touches back.

Cyrus would never cross this line. It's not so safe out there.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely notices that T.J. has stopped singing, and is startled when he hears him speak up again.

“This one's an unspoken request,” the blond boy announces before he starts the next song.

It only takes three seconds for Cyrus to recognize it.

And when he does, he tries not to smile too brightly.

_And I could see something in your eye_   
_I knew that nothing else would be the same_   
_But I wish that I could grow up, the way in which you grow up_   
_Cause then you'd never see me cry_   
_And I'd feel like a better guy_

“I don't think I know this song,” Andi wonders.

“I'm pretty sure it's the guy from One Direction,” says Jonah, who has somehow managed to sneak in without getting noticed.

“Which one, though? Aren't there like seven of them?”

“You're mixing things up. That's BTS.”

They all seem equally puzzled and procceed to guess who the artist is, throwing names left and right. When, after three minutes of bickering, Jonah suggests that it could be the Jonas Brothers, Cyrus decides that it's enough. “Come on, guys, it's Rex Orange County!”

“Oh,” Buffy says without much conviction. But when her gaze lands on his shirt, she says it again, this time a lot more vigorously—“ _Oh_.”

Cyrus feels his lungs crawl. Suddenly, he regrets having said anything at all.

“Still not interested?” Andi snarls, the question suspended in the air.

Cyrus is ready to shake his head, deny it all—but then. _Then_.

His eyes meet T.J.'s, who is looking right at him, and who smiles, teeth perfectly aligned, perfectly bright, and maybe _oh_ is an understatement for what Cyrus is feeling right now. His stomach twists, awash with a new sensation, one he's never experienced before and that soon takes all the place in his body.

And maybe he was wrong. Maybe change is coming after all.

He did not expect that it would be in the form of a blond pianist.

* * *

When he shows up wearing a shirt marked by two white crosses a couple days later, Buffy decides not to comment on it and just shuffles closer to the window to let him sit next to her.

Everyone is already there, except for T.J. They all seem to be caught up in a debate, or rather—Buffy is caught up in the debate, and Andi, Jonah and Marty are only the coal to fuel her flame.

“I'm just saying,” Cyrus picks up from Buffy. “Public displays of affection are the worst. I hate it when guys propose in public. It feels like a trap. Because if the girl rejects him, people think that she's the bad one. Not the guy who put her in this embarrassing place to begin with.”

“But what about Heath Ledger in _10 Things I Hate About You_?” Andi says, seemingly amused by her friend's outburst. “Surely he has a pass.”

“No.”

Buffy's definitive answer is punctuated by the door slamming open. “Hey guys, what's up?” T.J. chirps as he enters.

If Cyrus beams a little too much at his appearance, nobody seems to care or be surprised. Which, if he thinks about it, is a bit disturbing, so he pushes the thought at the back of his mind. Instead, he eagerly scoops over so that T.J can sit by his side. The blond boy smiles, letting his arm hang loose on the back of the seat as he slips on the bench, and Cyrus is only too aware of the way T.J.'s fingers graze at his shoulders.

“So, what's the deal?” T.J. inquires.

“I was just saying that it's never cute when boys declare their flame with grand gestures in front of everyone,” Buffy sums up. “It's mortifying, and gross. There's no way to make it somehow acceptable.”

“Is this a challenge?” Marty picks up.

“Yes,” she shoots back, but she seems to realize she spoke too fast, judging by the way her fierce look slowly melts into a blank face. “Wait,” she says. “No. No no no no.”

But Marty isn't listening to her protests, already making his way to the piano. Soon enough, his lips find the microphone. “I'd like to dedicate this song to the one and only Buffy Driscoll,” the speaker buzzes.

“Please tell me this isn't happening,” Buffy deadpans.

But this is happening. Marty is not really playing, just pressing some keys at random times, and yet he sings with an unbridled fervor, moving his head to the disjointed beat.

_Wanna go back to the place where we started_   
_At the party, I see you, but you keep your guard up_   
_We could be something special if you wanted_   
_I'm afraid that if we tried to_   
_You would just give up_

“Come on, you can't say that's not sweet,” Andi says.

And it is. It really is sweet. There's tenderness in the mockery, Cyrus comes to recognize, and what is it with boys being too afraid to show their feelings, anyway?

Eventually, Marty seems to think it's getting boring because he decides to change the lyrics. To make it funnier, probably. His voice become far too high-pitched, and it's not that romantic anymore. Everything is ruined when he finally bursts into laughter, breaking the delicacy he's struggled to build up. But it's okay, because his smile is still genuine, and even Buffy grins at the end.

“I hate you,” she whispers to him after he has made a mock bow at the invisible audience.

He doesn't take offence at that, only points at T.J. with his chin. “Take that, Mr. Crooner.”

The latter raises his hands. “You got some moves, Marty,” he says. “That I can admit. But you seriously lack the style to woo someone properly.”

“Oh yeah? Why don't you give us a show then?”

At the provocation, Jonah and Andi both start making “oooh” sounds, the noise becoming louder and louder as T.J. gets up to take the seat Marty has just left.

“Some people don't know how to make words matter”, he says over the microphone once he gets to the piano. “It's all about how much soul you pour in it.”

He makes a show of cracking his fingers, slow, and deliberate. But as soon as he focuses on the instrument in front of him, all playfulness in his eyes is gone. He straigthens himself, ensuring proper posture. He doesn't waste time fooling around, then. His hands fall on the keys all at once, and the first chord fills the air perfectly, like a wave rushing in sand holes.

And just like the first time, it doesn't take long for Cyrus to recognize the song he's playing.

_And there's no one else who knows me like you do_   
_What I've done, you've done too_   
_The walls I hide behind, you walk through_   
_You just walk through_

The words are heavy, each syllable weighing down on T.J.'s tongue. His jaw is tense, his voice coarse. Cyrus follows the line that traces the muscles of his arm to the hollow of his neck, his mouth. Looks up to find his eyes.

Something breaks inside of him when he discovers that they aren't closed; all the time he's singing, he's looking directly at Cyrus. Deep, deep green. This makes Cyrus's hand clench around the table, the sudden need to hold onto something. Anything.

“Is this happening?” Andi squeals. “Is T.J. really wooing you right now?”

She elbows Cyrus to get him to talk but he doesn't react. There's a tightness in his throat, suddenly. An itch he cannot scrape.

He could joke around. Say that of course T.J. is serenading him, because that's the game, after all. But it wouldn't seem right; T.J.'s tone retains none of the teasing Marty showed earlier. His brows are knit together, mouth almost shut, and it's not light, and it's not funny.

There's a tug at his rib cage he cannot suppress.

* * *

“So, er, you aren't going to sing?”

It's been a week since T.J. last sang, and although they've met at The Spoon almost every day after that, he hasn't touched the piano since.

T.J. raises his eyebrow at Cyrus's question. “Why? Do you want me to?”

“Well, I think it's a shame not to let people enjoy some good music,” Cyrus shrugs, feigning detachment. He won't say that the real reason he asked is because he misses his voice. Misses the way it makes him feel, when T.J. looks at him during the songs—like someone special enough to be allowed in this hermetic world of his.

“Really?”

“Yes. You… you play very well.” The words come with difficulty and he doesn't understand why. He's never had any problem showering his friends with compliments before. It's quite the opposite, actually; he always wants them to know how much he appreciates them, appreciates their presence by his side.

But _this_ —this is different. Scarier.

When he speaks to T.J., he's afraid that he will say too much and too little at the same time. Every word seems treacherous, the shadow of a slope from which he cannot go back from.

So when T.J. says “Thanks”, his voice betraying skepticism, he wants to retort that he didn't mean it as a compliment. That this—this was a confession. He said that T.J. played well, because “well” only meant everything. Because for him, T.J. doesn't only play music. He plays his soul, his heart. He plays the trace of thousands of versions of the same truth. He plays until he himself becomes a key pressed by the burden of the things left unsaid.

But T.J. doesn't get it. Of course he doesn't.

And the silence that settles afterwards is the beginning of a storm.

* * *

One day, Cyrus is wearing a Cavetown sweater, sleeves damp with tears. It's one of these afternoons when there is no room in his body for anything but sadness and empty disarray, when all the pain feels like a thick, circular line closing on him.

There are only Jonah and T.J. at The Spoon, that day. Jonah's mouth is already stuffed with pancakes and when Cyrus sits down, he tells him all about his life, oblivious to his state of mind. He talks about freesbee and guitar and school, and Cyrus tries to keep up with it but he just can't bring himself to.

“Are you okay?” T.J. asks, because of course he would notice.

Cyrus doesn't trust his voice so he just nods, this mere gesture making him wince even more. At this point, he hates everything. His nose that can't seem to stop running, the teeth that bite his bottom lip. The pounding against his temples. How he can't speak his mind when he needs it the most.

He glances at T.J., sees him dart his tongue between his lips. He doesn't say anything—simply nods too, pats his shoulder. Without a word, he gets up and walks to the piano.

Cyrus wants to say that this isn't what he needs right now, that he would very much prefer to mope in silence. But still, T.J. presses the first key and the room is suddenly draped by the balmy cloth of silence. The whole world falls shut, as if it wanted to listen to the music too—this soft, soft lullaby.

And it's probably just the airiness of the tune that makes Cyrus feel this way, but the weight on his shoulders seems to lighten a little. He surrenders to it, beat by beat. Accepts to let go, to let the sound flow right to his ears, his brain; the invisible words float on thin air like an unsubtitled Japanese movie—

T.J.'s voice breaks the infinite tides.

_We can talk here on the floor_   
_On the phone, if you prefer_   
_I'll be here until you're okay_   
_Let your words release your pain_   
_You and I will share the weight_   
_Growing stronger day by day_

And it's what they say in these stupid films, isn't it? The feeling that the other boy knows him better than he will ever know himself, is more himself than he will ever be.

Across the room, his eyes find T.J.'s. The contact is so sharp he doesn't dare to breathe. Doesn't utter a word. He doesn't know what he could say if he opened his mouth.

“Thank you”, perhaps.

But most evidently, “I really really really like you.”

* * *

Before he knows it, he finds himself ordering all the merch he can find on the Internet. Florence + The Machine, Wallows, Gus Dapperton—he buys it all.

And T.J. sings “I feel nervous in a way that can't be named”, and “I don't know where we're going but I'd like to be by your side”, and he sings “I like the way that words come out your mouth”.

It makes Cyrus wonder. Makes him ache for more.

Movies are to be seen, to be watched from afar. There's voyeurism in them—the images deconstructing before the spectator's eyes. A string of evanescent forms meant for the audience to drink them in—and Cyrus drinks _him_ in; the disheveled hair, the curve of his lips, the creases under the eyes. He takes, and takes, and takes as much as he can.

But it isn't enough, now, is it? He could be content with it the first times, when it was still late summer. When everything was stretching toward the sun, the perfect white blossoms. But now, now, all is starting to fade away, and it's all his fault.

Because he just watches.

Because he just watches, and watching means witnessing only, without taking any part of what is happening. It means shallowness. Inaccuracy. How could watching ever be enough to grasp the three-dimensional space of a being? He has no idea what T.J.'s skin would feel like between his fingertips, has no idea what kind of sound he would make if he pressed his face the right angle, the right amount.

For the first time, he doesn't want to watch anymore; he wants to dive right in. He wants to—

touch.

* * *

“Wanna come over at my house?”

The simple question rolls deep in the breezy afternoon, and Cyrus nods.

It's the end of school day, and the brown leaves covering the road crack under their feet as they stroll in the streets that lead to T.J's home. They walk slowly, shoulders bumping every so often when the pavement gets too narrow for two people to stand alongside, but they stay like that anyway, none of them daring to make a step forward, or to fall back.

It should feel right. Easy. They've walked side by side many times before, steps tangling to finally find a common rythm. A common ground. But restlessness has taken over Cyrus's body and he can't shut out the dozen of thoughts that race in his mind. This is the first time he's invited to T.J.'s house. What if he breaks something? What if he ruins everything?

His agitation fades a little when they arrive on the doorstep. He wipes the soles of his shoes clean on the mat, tries to leave his worries behind.

He takes his first step in this unchartered territory.

“Let's go to my room before Amber comes back,” T.J. says, throwing his backpack on the couch, in the middle of a dimmed living room. “She'd want to have you all for herself.”

“Why would she want that?”

T.J. kicks him playfully at the waist. “Don't pretend that you don't know. You're irresistible, Underdog.”

Cyrus is certain that his face is turning crimson by the minute, so he ducks his head in his pullover to hide his embarassment. He probably makes a poor job at it, judging by the amused look on T.J.'s face. The boy doesn't say anything, though. Only guides him upstairs, to his bedroom.

“Wow,” Cyrus says when he enters the room.

“What?”

“I don't know. It's just… so you.”

There's no hidden meaning behind it; T.J.'s room is just so full of him. Cyrus's not quite sure if it's something in the air—if this _something_ is even tangible, but his scent is pouring everywhere, like light between the leaves. Perhaps it's the book on his bed table, the page of a new chapter left dog-eared. Perhaps it's the pile of sweatshirts carelessly discarded on the chair. The sneakers at the foot of the bed.

Cyrus goes through the shelves, where the CDs and the vinyls have been stashed. His fingers graze at the edge of the covers. There's Joji, and there's Kevin Abstract, and Frank Ocean. In the back, some Sufjan Stevens.

“So, you're going for the sad vibes all the way?” he teases.

He looks over his shoulder to find that T.J.'s sitting on his bed. It's a strange sight; T.J., on his bed, in his room. At school, they could always get away with the incessant chatting of students in the halls; at the swings, the sound of the breeze. But now, there's no white noise to cover up the weight of each other's words. No place to hide.

“What can I say?” T.J. replies. “I have a soft heart.”

“I recall you played some jazz songs at The Spoon. But I don't see the shadow of a jazz record here.”

“Ha. That's my grandparents. Big fans. They tune in the jazz station every time I visit them. So I kinda picked up on that.”

At that, Cyrus chuckles, which makes T.J. give him a quizzical look. “We really don't listen to the same things at all,” he shrugs. “How do you even know all the artists I like?”

“I love music,” T.J. simply replies. “And it's not like they're some cryptic artists anyway.”

“Are you saying I have a bland taste in music?”

He meant it as a joke, but T.J. looks embarrassed. Like he's actually afraid he has upset him.

And this is weird, too. Because that's never happened before. They've always teased each other a lot, and always laughed about it. Perhaps Cyrus's restlessness has somehow burst out of his body and is rubbing on him, too. Perhaps they're both trapped in this strange state of discomfort.

_Are you screaming silently inside of your walls too?_

To lighten the mood, he points at the _Star Wars_ posters hanging on the wall. “Ha. Maybe I'm not the only one with a boring taste after all.”

“ _Star Wars_ is great,” T.J. mutters.

“Sure. Still boring.”

He could go on a bit, finding solace in this familiar quibble, but he finds something more interesting to focus on; an electronic keyboard, standing under the window.

“Wanna try?” T.J. says, catching his gaze.

“I don't know. I have a piano too, at my house, but, uh. Never really played.”

“It's fun, I swear.”

“If you say so…” he says, pressing a white key, gently, gently. Too gently, maybe, because the sound that comes out of the speaker is barely audible. So he presses it again, and this time, it's much clearer. Feeling bold, he tries to use his other hand too, moving his fingers on black keys, but only manages to produce a dissonant sound.

Behind, he hears T.J. get up of the bed and move next to him. “Maybe you should try to play actual chords?” the blond boy says. He puts his fingers on his end of the piano, showing him how to do it. “Put your index here… and your middle finger here… and that one like this. That's a C. And if you move them to the left like me, you have a G.”

Cyrus tries to mimic his movements, but T.J's hands are so fast and his are just too numb, he feels like his has lead instead of fingers.

It hits him, then—how he's never really been sure of what to make of his body. He doesn't know how not to disturb the air around him, how not to make it look like he's about to break things appart or stumble everytime he moves around. Now, even his hands feel alien to him.

He's spilling all over the place, he realizes. His mind is running wild, trying to find a way to exit this very, very dreadful place and only encouters locked doors, and his heart is racing with it, now, and his eyes feel humid—

until it stops—

until T.J. puts his hand over his.

“You're fine, Cyrus,” he whispers.

He takes his hand, starts spreading his fingers on the keyboard. Cyrus's heart is still bumping loudly against his flesh and he wonders—can T.J. feel his pulse?

“Just relax your fingers.” He picks up his thumb, places it between two black keys. “Okay, now try to press them all at the same time. Yeah, like this. This is an A minor. And if you move all your fingers to the left like this, you have an F.”

Cyrus repeats the movement, obediently—follows T.J.'s fingers like the footprints of a man in the desert. He's surprised, when he pushes on the tiles, to hear a sound that isn't discordant; lets out a happy laugh.

“Now, if you play these four chords in a row, you can play 50% of the songs in the world!” T.J. says brightly.

He shows him another chord, and another one after that. Cyrus doesn't know how long they go on, playing like this. More importantly—he doesn't care much. It's just them, heads bobing in sync, as if time was running backwards and then came into a halt and just lingered there, in this tiny place between their hands.

When T.J.'s hand bumps against his, it's so overwhelming that Cyrus has to stop.

“What?” T.J. asks.

“Nothing,” Cyrus says, shaking his head.

He cannot say it—say that suddenly, he's felt his heart take root in this very hand, felt his veins become blue in fingers that are not his. He cannot say that it was devastating, really, the way the music's cradled them together and dropped both of their bodies into the same sea.

The silence that settles then is subtle, only broken by the faint notes of the piano that T.J.'s still playing and words that Cyrus did not dare to pronounce, not yet, not there.

“I have to leave,” he eventually says—too fast, too late.

“Okay.”

But he makes no move to the door. Instead, he just stares at T.J. When he doesn't tilt his chin up, his eyes fall somewhere between the tip of his nose and his upper lip. It's one of these absurd details about T.J. that he doesn't need to remember but remembers still. A very unpractical memory, especially when they're standing like this, T.J. looking at him expectingly and him not knowing what to do with his body again.

“Are you okay?” T.J. says.

“Yes! I just… I really like your hoodie.”

“Yeah?”

Cyrus watches as T.J. takes it off and then presses the piece of cloth against his chest.

“There you go,” T.J. says. “Besides, it's getting cold out there.”

Cyrus thanks him, and goes very still. The restlessness is here again, and it's stirring at the pores of his skin. Something deep in his stomach that wants to step out of him and touch the boy in front of him. T.J. is right here, all smooth around the edges and firm, and if only he could just—

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” T.J. tries, breathing a careful sigh.

And under his insisting gaze, everything falls apart. Cyrus doesn't feel so bold anymore. What if it was all just a big mistake—this stupid idea to twist things up? What if they were better this way?

(What if he wasn't ready to change?)

The roaring goes quiet as he shakes his head. “No.”

He thinks he's just imagining the bittersweetness that stains T.J.'s face.

* * *

T.J doesn't come at The Spoon the following day. Or the day after that. Cyrus knows he's the one to blame, but he can't bring himself to go talk to him or even send a text message. He's sure that T.J. wouldn't understand anyway. Even he can't explain it; there is just no cool way to say “I'm sorry, I think I'm catching feelings because of your songs and I'm afraid that you're just fooling around, but sometimes you look at me _that_ way and I have hope again and I don't know what to do anymore.”

Everything is just so fuzzy and weird, and nothing seems good enough to extract himself from this situation. So he does the one thing that will never fail him: he eats out his feelings.

“You know, I didn't say anything about your new style,” Buffy says as he starts eating his third plate of baby taters. “But I have to veto this: this looks way too big on you. And you shouldn't eat this much to compensate.”

She eyes the sweatshirt that Cyrus is wearing, unimpressed. He folds his arm against his chest, a protective wave surging in him. “It's not mine,” he defends himself. “It's T.J.'s. He lent it to me.”

“And that doesn't seem boyfriend-y at all.”

He shakes his head, still holding the hoodie tightly. He knows how this looks like, but he can't help it: it's soft, warm, fluffy at the sleeves, and it smells like T.J., and _uh_ —is it only autumn that makes people fall so fast?

“I think he hates me,” he mutters.

Buffy rolls her eyes. “He literally sings you love songs.”

“Exactly!” he cries dramatically. “They're just _songs_. They don't mean anything.”

“How come?”

Cyrus makes empty gestures in the air. “Singers are just like actors, you know? They embody a character with their songs, the way actors do when they learn a new text. They're playing an act.”

He puts his head in his hands and sighs, hoping to get her sympathy—because for a moment, he actually _forgets_ that it's Buffy he's dealing with, and that of course she won't show anything remotely close to sympathy. That's how desperate he is.

He's reminded of it soon enough, though.

“Well, right now, you're the one who's playing,” she snaps, and she looks like she wants to smack him. “And by that, I mean, playing dumb. Just talk to him! What are you so afraid of?”

But that's the thing, he wants to say. There are just so many things to be scared of.

The fear that everything has just been a mean trick of his imagination all along.

The terror that it hasn't.

* * *

When he meets T.J. at The Spoon three days later, he's wearing a plain white shirt.

“So, no music today?” T.J. inquires, eyes scanning his shirt in search of an artist's stamp and finding none. He's the one wearing band merch, this time—a black Led Zeppelin sweatshirt, although he's never mentioned liking old rock stuff. It makes Cyrus wonder how many aspects of him he still doesn't know.

The sweatshirt is a little too big, even for T.J. It hangs loose on him, around the collar, and the waist. He looks fragile, like that. A house of glass about to break because of all the angles that have been cut raw, and Cyrus's body in front of him is a shadow against his walls.

He looms in, testing the waters. “On the contrary,” he says. “But it's my turn now.”

“You're going to sing, Underdog?”

“Let's not get carried away,” he scoffs.

There's a teasing edge in their exchange, which makes things a little less wired. Just a little less. Because it's still awkward to be here, with him, after all these days spent avoiding each other. Cyrus doubted that he would even come, when he texted him.

But here he is. And here they are.

“You asked me if there was anything I wanted to tell you,” he recalls.

T.J.'s answer is made in a low, husky tone. “Yeah,” a mumble more than a sentence.

“Well, I don't.”

“Okay…” the blond boy trails off. The hurt on his face is perfectly visible, and it's the last thing Cyrus's wanted.

“No! Not like that!” he exclaims. His hands fiddle with the pockets of his jeans and he swallows, hard. This was way easier in his head. “See? I'm screwing this up already.” Pockets. Jeans. Frustrated, frustrated sigh. “I, ah. I've always been told I was very articulated. But with you… I don't know.”

The bubble that has been forming in his throat since the beginning of the conversation is becoming impossibly big. Stifling. He'll choke on his words if he keeps hesitating like that, he realizes, but it's hard to even breathe at this point—so, so hard. Every edge of the near future is painted with 'perhaps' and none with 'certainty'.

He inhales through his mouth, trying to keep his composure. Nothing absolutely, inherently bad could happen, he tells himself. He must remember that it's just T.J. It's always been just T.J., and he just has to take the fall.

Just take the fall.

“So I won't say anything. But I can play you something?” he says, moving over to the piano. He sits, lifts the lid off the instrument. “This is a song about words,” he continues. “Words not being enough to express everything I want to tell you. Okay. Uh. Here we go.”

He places his left hand on the keys, just like T.J.'s taught him. He breathes in, deeply, replacing the images in his head in the right order. It took him two days to learn the piece. It's not the real song, just a rearranged, simplified version that he has found on YouTube, but he hopes it does the trick. It has to.

Before he can change his mind—allow the shadow in the dark part of the restaurant to paralyze him, he presses his fingers down. Lets the sound swallow his doubts.

Outside, he hears people pass by the restaurant every now and then. He does his best to focus on the music only, brows drawn together. It's not so easy to concentrate when it's not the chilly atmosphere of his living room but T.J.'s body radiating a burning heat on his left side; he messes up some parts, goes too fast on others. Still, he goes on. He'll never have the strength to begin again if he stops.

All the time he's playing, he tries to incorporate as much meaning as he can. What he feels for T.J., where his hands roam in his dreams—on his right cheek, his bottom lip, how dreadful the last few days have been; he pours it all into the song.

_Do you understand what I'm trying to say?_

Once he's hit the final note, he turns to face T.J. The floor might dissolve beneath his feet and his eyes are the only things to keep him grounded.

“You know this song, right?” he asks.

“Yes.” T.J.'s reply comes in a short breath, like he's just run a marathon. Like he's the one who's about to combust, and Cyrus would laugh if he wasn't so nervous himself. “It's _Futile Devices_. Sufjan Stevens.”

“And you remember the lyrics?”

“Yes,” he says again. And, after a pause, “Do you… do you mean it?”

His gaze is still wary, as if he didn't believe what he was hearing, but Cyrus catches a flash of hope in his iris, vibrant and colorful—it almost leaves him breathless.

There it is, this glow that he's been waiting for.

“Yes,” he says too. “Yes.”

It is so natural and so inevitable, then, T.J.'s hand reaching for him. A tentative nudge, at first, but the pressure increases slowly when he senses that Cyrus isn't pulling away. He's diligent with it, careful. It reminds Cyrus of the revering way he touches the keys of his piano, like something precious. (It kind of makes him want to scream a little.)

When T.J. clasps his hand on his wrist, he doesn't draw back. He's not afraid anymore; there's firmness in his stand, and he feels like it's finally okay to run towards and not away.

Getting up, he grabs T.J. by his shoulders, the back of his neck. He pulls him into a hug.

And he holds on tight.

“I'm so relieved, you have no idea,” he whispers, his voice muffled by T.J.'s shoulder.

“Actually, I think I have a pretty good idea.”

Cyrus laughs at that, feeling warmth spilling down his whole body. The blurry line breaks against the repeated rise and fall of their chest, and he closes his eyes in an attempt to memorize every detail of this moment.

After a minute, T.J. slowly detaches himself from the embrace. A smile makes his lips curl. “There's one part of the song that I'm not really sure of, though,” he says. “Is it 'I do _like_ you' or ' _love_ you'?”

Cyrus feels his cheeks burn even more—as if it was possible. He pokes at him. “Just be quiet.”

“Yeah. Okay.” T.J. surrenders, placing a hand at the back of Cyrus's head and letting it rest against his chest, close, so close.

Cyrus lets out a content sigh. He knows that this isn't the conclusion of all things, that there are still many lessons he must learn: how to grow into the space he's meant to occupy; how to be the self he wants to be. But at this moment, he thinks that it wouldn't be the worst way to end his movie.

He can picture it perfectly—the credits rolling into this eternal 'perhaps', the music fading as the screen fades to black. Above all, the remaining presence of T.J. by his side, always, assuring him that whatever comes next (in the next minute, the next hour, or the next day),

he is ready.

_And I would say I love you_   
_But saying it out loud is hard_   
_So I won't say it at all_   
_And I won't stay very long_   
_But you are life I needed all along_

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! pls play along and pretend that the concept wasnt cringy lol
> 
> also, fun fact: i started to write this before watching the last episode and when i eventually watched it i was like?? omg??? so tj really does play the piano and its canon that they sing to each other??????? 
> 
> +here are all the songs that have been mentioned:  
> rex orange county; _nothing_  
>  clairo; _feel something_  
>  the xx; _our song_  
>  cavetown; _talk to me_  
>  sufjan stevens; _futile devices_


End file.
